


Bubblegum Heart

by whiskyandoldspice (Itsirtou)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Dean, Dom/sub, F/M, Fisting, Light Bondage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:01:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itsirtou/pseuds/whiskyandoldspice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's not careful with Dean. He wouldn't want her to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bubblegum Heart

“Baby,” she says, sweeping her thumb across his cheekbone, “I think Alastair had you all wrong. Ham-fisted, you know? Used a sledgehammer when he should’ve used a feather.“

Dean whimpers a little and tries to turn his head to take her thumb into his mouth, and when she lifts her hand away he lets out a small distressed noise, just soft enough that she barely hears. He’s smart, smart and pretty and strong, but all the way through his strength he’s got cracks, crevasses, empty black wounds, places where she can dig in her fingers and pull. Just the way Abaddon likes her boys.

“It’s not to say he wasn’t good at his job. He was the best. But I saw him with you, sweetheart, and to be honest, I think you need a little bit more tenderness.”

He doesn’t say anything in response, because he’s learned better by now. Every time Dean summons her it’s like this, with him silent and her mocking, him restrained and her free, him naked and her clothed. Sometimes he pushes back, just the littlest bit, the tiniest fraction of rebellion, and she doesn’t know if he does it because he likes it or because he knows how much she does. Right now, though, he’s still. She taps her fingers on his lower lip and he opens his mouth obediently to suck on her fingers. The lipstick she’s put on him looks ridiculous and garish, bubblegum pink and shiny-slick. He hates it, so she loves it. He loves it, though, too. He’s so easy.

His dick’s hard underneath her hips where she’s straddling him, and Abaddon knows he hates that, too. He’s been hard ever since she’d cuffed his wrists and pushed him down to the bed, spreading his legs, dragging her fingers along the thick muscles of his thighs as she slid the satin panties up his legs. His cock had been pink and flushed by the time she snapped the waistband around his hips, and she’d sucked the head of it into her mouth through the panties for just a moment, and what a good boy he’d been then, panting loud through his nose but keeping perfectly still, just the faintest twitch in the muscle of his leg underneath her hand.

She hadn’t been disappointed by that. She likes when he obeys, and she likes when he disobeys, too. The best, the very best thing about Dean, she thinks, is the way he takes punishment and pleasure all the same, with his mouth open, begging for it and hating it and every line of his body desperate and straining.

“Get up,” she says, climbing off of his body, and smacks him on the tender inside of his thigh.

It probably shouldn’t be as pretty as it is, watching Dean struggle to lever himself off the bed with his hands restrained behind his back. He has to wiggle awkwardly to do it, and his face gets red with effort and embarrassment; he won’t meet her eyes. When he finally manages to get to the foot of the bed he collapses at her feet on his knees. 

“Get up,” she says again, watching the quick rise and fall of his shoulders as he pants, there at her feet, his head bowed. “Get up and go to the dresser. Lean against it.” He knows what’s coming. That’s one of the best parts. When Abaddon does this—whatever this is—with Dean, she doesn’t bother switching it up. She doesn’t care if she’s predictable. She likes it when Dean knows exactly what’s coming, exactly how tight she’ll tie his restraints, exactly how many spanks, exactly how many minutes before she’ll finally let him come. One time she’d tied him down spread-eagled to the bed and threaded delicate little metal pins through the soft tender flesh of his inner thigh, just beneath the skin. Seven pins on each side. His desperate scared tears when he’d realized just how many he’d have to endure had been sweet, so sweet.

So when she tells Dean to spread his legs and lean against the dresser facing the mirror, he knows what’s coming. It doesn’t make him react any less when she traces a finger down the lovely arc of his spine; a little shiver runs through him, from his shoulders to his toes, and he goes tense all over.

“Relax,” she says. When she traces her finger against the twitching rim of his hole he’s slick, loose and open, and she lets herself smile, picturing Dean on the bed or standing in the bathroom, fingering himself, breathing in short little gasps and trying not to let himself come. “How many,” she asks, and he doesn’t answer right away so she corkscrews two fingers into him at once all the way to the knuckle, and he gasps, a short little choked off breath of air, leaning forward, putting his weight against the dresser, but thrusting his hips back. “Slut,” she says, a little fondly, and runs one of her hands up his chest so she can pinch a nipple.

“Four,” he says, barest hint of a whine in his voice, “four, four, f-four,” as she rubs against his prostate, too hard. His back is arched into an extreme curve, pushing his hips out toward her, and part of it’s instinct but part of it is because he knows how much she likes it. Sweet little thing. She rewards him with a tug on his nipple, digging her fingernail into the flesh. The air is whooshing out of his lungs in little helpless shuddering breaths already; she’s going to get tears out of him, tonight.

“Good,” she says, “good boy,” and on the next thrust of her hand she puts all four fingers together and pushes them inside of his body without waiting for him to adjust to the width. He moans, low and long and relieved, under his breath, taking her in effortlessly, just like he always does. Everything about his body is so easy, everything about his mind so locked-down and tight, or at least, he likes to think so. Pretty little boy slicing open his veins and bleeding out with every breath, sacrificing himself to her every night. She’s never had anything quite so delicious.

When she folds her thumb in against the rest of her hand, pushing against the resistance of his body, he whimpers, “please, please,” and she says, “let me in, baby,” and he does what he’s told. The slick heat of his body is tight around her fist, and he twitches and whines and whimpers like a scared little virgin every time she moves her fingers inside him.

“How do you feel?” she says, because she likes making him talk when he’s like this, when he can’t think, when he can’t lie. Little lines of sweat drip down his back, his skin shining slick, his head bowed and his forehead touching the dresser. She fists her hand in the short hair on the back of his head and pulls him up, up til he has to look at himself in the mirror, up til he’s staring at his own face, mascara smudged under his eyes, bright pink on his lips and smeared down his chin. When he closes his eyes, pretty green eyes, she bites into the thick corded muscle on the side of his neck til she feels her teeth break the skin, and he cries out, but he opens his eyes again. “Watch yourself. Look. How do you feel?”

“Full,” he gasps, as she twists her hand, and when she pushes in further and separates her fingers inside him he goes up on his toes, head snapping back, mouth open and gaping, wordless. 

“And?” she prompts.

“Good,” he whispers at the ceiling. “I feel good, oh God, please, please.” Even when he’s begging, he never says her name. Like he thinks that makes it less real. It’s cute.

When she pulls her fist out of him she doesn’t bother being careful. At the pain, a little string of precome drips off the tip of his cock. She flips him around, pushing him against the dresser, and slams her mouth down on his, biting at his swollen lips, tasting the plasticky lipstick and his blood and his sweat. He’s crying now, just the littlest bit; she can feel it as she grabs his chin between her fingers so she can put his mouth where she wants it. He’ll probably have dark little marks on his jaw tomorrow because he bruises like a peach, delicate boy. She lifts her mouth away from his and he follows her, greedy, blood shining slick on the shiny pink of his puffy mouth.

“Please,” he whimpers, and she slaps him hard, once, across the face, fingernails scoring into his cheek. He comes with a shocked hurt moan, like he wasn’t expecting it, come streaking up his chest as he hunches forward, shuddering, ashamed. 

“Don’t even need a hand on you, Dean,” she says, because she enjoys saying his name when she knows it’ll hurt him the most. He closes his eyes and tries to lean forward and rest his head on her shoulder. She shoves him back against the dresser; she doesn’t like when he tries to hide. The side of his face is already swollen from where she slapped him, so she presses on the skin there with the tips of her fingers until he lets out a sobbing little sigh. When he drops to his knees and noses against the crotch of her pants, it’s obvious he’s trying to distract her. 

She shoves him back onto the ground with a knee to his shoulder. He doesn’t move, lying there sprawled out where he landed, cock pretty and soft against his thigh. 

“Til next time, baby.” She leans down and kisses him on one wet cheek, leaving him there on the ground for somebody else to find, someone else’s problem, someone else’s puzzle to put back together. He’ll bounce back; he always does. He’ll be whole again tomorrow, waiting for her to break him. She’s looking forward to it already.


End file.
